Redemption
by Mesataki
Summary: The consequences have caught up to him, and they demand that he pay the price. An insight of the end.


The pounding of burdened horseshoes echoed into his drumming heart – sweat staining the front of his shirt as he pulled the cumbersome barn doors closed. He paused, resting his slick forehead on the wood for just a moment, the rough surface acting as a means to ground his thoughts.

He could go right now. Follow them out – start somewhere new, get rid of the Marston name… He could take Jack hunting again and pay their 'respects' to the bears the boy had desperately tried to fight by himself. They could do it together – and then they'd worked the land together as ranchers or farmers, whichever proved more bountiful. The cattle would be strong and the crops flourishing, and after they'd come home, Abigail would be waiting with whatever poisoned she cooked up that time, and they'd all laugh and eat together.

And then he'd grow old, living out his days as Jack grew taller and stronger – and soon, he'd have grandkids. Little grandkids he could bounce on his knee and tell them wild tales of his earlier days, Jack or Abigail interjecting from time to time. And when he'd finally die, he'd be surrounded by family, and they'd bury him somewhere nice like under a tree or on top of a hill.

Harsh reality seized him back to sullen truth. There was no paradise waiting for him – there was no rest for the wicked, and he was an outlaw to the very end. His revolver, warm from use, was clenched tightly in a white-knuckled fist.

His steps were jarred and tense, like his fevered body as he made his way to the end, the small plumes of kicked up dust notifying him that time was indeed passing. He didn't have forever. By the time he reached the front doors, his knees were beginning to grow weak from the overwhelming pressure – and it was ironic in a way.

He had faced danger before – looked it straight in the eye and wrestled it down countless of times without even once flinching. He'd kill hundreds of men in cold blood, done all manner of things a boy shouldn't even know about. He was a killer, and yet, he feared for his own death when its shadow hung over him like an incessant plague that wore him down like rough sandpaper on wood – gnawing on the old outer layer to get to the fairer layer.

He gently pushed the door open, just to peek.

He saw a crowd of gunmen lined up, rifles at ready. The way they were clustered, he could've thrown a stick of dynamite right now and killed them all – that bastard Ross, included. But he didn't – he had gotten rid of all his dynamite. Too dangerous of a weapon for a rancher like him to have. He'd thought the day he dropped it was the day he buried the hatchet and moved on, but…

He withdrew, knowing that they knew he was there. They had him trapped like a rat – it wouldn't take much just to set the barn on fire, but they were like predators waiting for their prey. They knew they had him, and they knew he would eventually come out on his own. He had no choice in this.

He took in a rickety breath, his hands trembling lightly. What he would do for a smoke right now.

Why didn't he just run or kill them all and make his escape?

He cocked the hammer back, a hand on the door as he prepared to fling it wide open.

What kind of man would deny himself an opportunity to recreate his paradise?

This was a dead man's gun he was holding. The doors boomed as they flew opened.

Why…?

He was looking down the sights – taking aim and firing off all six killing shots before they returned fire.

It was like being consumed by hellfire – an agony difficult to imagine and even more torturous to bear – and when it was over, he was still standing. He lapsed into a fit of bloody coughs.

Ross lit a thick cigar and took a long drag on it as he carefully watched the last of Dutch's gang.

And the outlaw watched him too, his eyes wearing pained resignation as he collapsed on to his knees. His hearing was gone by now – reduced only to the sound of his own breath which fought so desperately for life. It was a losing battle.

His vision flickered and his gaze swept across the men one last time, before the irreparable damage done to him laid its claim.

John Marston fell back into the dust – his hat rolling away until it came to a stop a short distance away. And even then, his blood still managed to seep into it.

This was the price of redemption.


End file.
